


Spite

by trollmela



Series: Lingering [10]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wandering around Middle-earth in search of work, Thorin finds his way into a village guarded by the last sons of Fëanor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spite

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Lingering series (chronologically the 6th part). You do not necessarily need to have read the other parts first, but they help explain the universe.
> 
> Set post 2800 TA while Thorin is a wandering blacksmith.

Thorin frowned up at the fortress. It was small, and sturdy. With his keen eyes, he could tell that it had been restored some hundreds of years ago, by dwarves, too. It was not the worst omen for a wandering dwarf looking for work.

Erebor falling to Smaug had forced many of the dwarves to flee into the Blue Mountains, but the mines there did not yield enough for the entire population. Thus the men folk often went away to offer their services as smiths in towns and villages of men.

This town was not very large; Thorin was willing to bet that it was one of the last settlements before the barren lands began. However, the fortress hinted at some people of power; and, if Thorin was lucky, he would not only shoe horses and make ladles, but also sharpen swords, repair armour and perhaps even fashion some jewelry for the local nobility. As a proud prince in Erebor, he had thought little of the gold and jewels his grandfather had loved too much. Only since living among men had he noted that it was not always the greatest of their leaders and kings who wore the most jewelry.

It seemed that he was in luck. The town’s smith had recently passed away before his time, leaving his apprentice behind, who was in over his head. The young lad beamed so joyfully at the dwarf that Thorin nearly forgot the harsh journey.

The smithy stood mostly empty, as the apprentice had not taken over his master’s living space. Thorin took that bedroom as his own. It was hardly comparable to what he had in the Blue Mountains, but it was better than most of his lodgings on the road so far.  
Days passed, and he heard nothing from the fortress. He had enough work from the villagers. Considering that they lived in such a small town and away from the biggest trading routes, they seemed to do well for themselves.

Leoth, his apprentice, was eager to learn from Thorin and proved to be a good lad. His mother, a widow, had come the day after Thorin’s arrival at the smithy, offering what little money she possessed from her work as a gatherer of herbs for Thorin to stay until her only son had learnt his craft.

Thorin had not accepted. The gold would have been good, but as long as there was work, there was no reason to leave. Moreover, he was still proud enough not to take from those in more dire straits than he.

When a week passed by and he heard nothing from the castle — unusual in his experience — he asked Leoth about it.

“They do not send often for a smith, unless one of their horses threw a shoe or something like that.”

“Is there no lady living up there?”

“A lady?” Leoth gave him a confused frown. “No. Have you not heard of our lords?”

“Enlighten me.”

“They’re elves. Their names are Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor. Apparently, that was a great elf once, a smith, too. But his sons don’t practice smith craft, although they know lots about it.”

Thorin froze in his movements.

“Aye, I know those names.”

As a prince, he knew the history of elves and men nearly as well as his own. Moreover, every dwarf knew of the Silmarils, known in legend as the most precious, but cursed, jewels ever made. The Dwarves of Nogrod had held one in their hands and paid for it. The Arkenstone had been compared to them once, a fact which Thrór had taken great pride in. What Thorin’s grandfather had not expected was two high elves appearing on his doorstep to see it. Thrór had not minded, as he allowed anyone to see the treasure he had claimed as his own, and he had been too blind by then to notice how the two elves bore themselves — tense and, it seemed, ready to shed blood if given enough incentive.

Thorin’s father Thráin had worried that the sons of Fëanor were not there to see the greatness of the Arkenstone. He had believed that they had come to investigate the rumor of whether the Arkenstone was the same Silmaril that the eldest son of Fëanor, Maedhros, had thrown into a chasm millennia before.

Thráin, and by default Thorin, had breathed a silent sigh of relief when the elves’ posture relaxed after a single glance at the Arkenstone set in Thrór’s throne. After that, the matter seemed to be settled, although the two elves had never said anything that might confirm or refute Thráin’s theory. Instead, they had left as quickly and as mysteriously as they had arrived. King Thranduil’s usually carefully blank expression had turned to one of barely disguised disgust when the woodelf had heard of the visit a week later.  
That had been Thorin’s only direct encounter with the sons of Fëanor, and if he had never met them again in his life, he would have been content. Ever since King Thranduil had withheld any help on Smaug’s coming, he cursed the entire elven race nearly every day.

“We rarely see them,” Leoth continued. “They ride out sometimes, but not very often. Only their steward, Himedhel, is around often. He goes to the market regularly.” Lowering his voice, Leoth added: “I once saw Lord Maedhros up close. He’s missing a hand.”

“Prince Maedhros,” Thorin corrected automatically. His teachers had drilled titles into his head for so long that it was a reflex.

“What?” Leoth asked in confused surprise.

“Nothing.” Thorin shrugged it off. If the town people here did not know that their lords were actually princes, there had to be some reason, even if it was that the sons of Fëanor simply didn’t care.

* * *

Himedhel was the first of the elves Thorin saw in this settlement. As Leoth had said, he was the princes’ steward, and he brought Thorin a kitchen knife to repair. It was old, perhaps even from the First Age, and seemed to hold some sentimental value.

Even as Thorin worked, the dark-haired elf watched him closely, and Thorin was not surprised to find that the elf was evaluating him. However, Himedhel said nothing, and Thorin watched him leave with a dark expression.

Leoth gave him an uncertain look. The lad did not yet dare to ask personal questions.

Weeks passed by. Thorin wondered whether to be insulted or relieved that he was not summoned. In the end, he decided on both. The work was good, and he expected that if everything went well, he might stay for the winter. That would give him time enough to finish Leoth’s apprenticeship, and he would not be depleting the food stores in the Blue Mountains. Then, when winter approached again, he would return to the Blue Mountains with his earnings. This winter he would have to remain in the village.

Only a couple of days later, snow began to fall. Thorin and Leoth stayed inside where it was warm. It was pure chance that one day Thorin opened the door to look outside and saw a hooded rider slowly riding up the hill towards the fortress. He was bundled up in furs and clothes; but Thorin had sharp eyes, and he spied some stray locks of red hair escaping from the hood, as well as the rider’s right arm, which ended in a stump. Thorin quickly turned away, but it seemed not quickly enough to escape the elf’s stern, grey eyes. Thorin returned the stare, but the prince only watched him for a moment before he turned his gaze back to the road.

* * *

The next time Himedhel came to the forge, he had a different task for Thorin. The locks and bolts in the fortress had become old and it was time to have them replaced. The job was well paid, and Thorin could not afford to say no.

The fortress was so quiet that it was nearly eerie. Himedhel had him enter and showed him to the doors that needed to be fixed. Then the steward left to tend to other things. Thorin in the meantime took measurements and notes of the locks and bolts he had to replace. He went through the corridor and all the rooms, and still no one came to disturb him. His hands nearly faltered in their work when a voice began to sing. The words eluded Thorin, but the voice was fair and strong, and the rhythm simple. It did not last long, and an unchecked sigh escaped Thorin’s throat when the song was over. There was no doubt in his mind that the singer had been Maglor Fëanorion, famed bard of the elves.

A door opened somewhere in the upper level, footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and then on the stairway across from where Thorin was working. The soft fluttering of robes on the stairs accompanied nearly soundless steps. Thorin would have called it a great feat to walk so silently, but he already knew that those steps belonged to an elf.

Maglor Fëanorion was a dark brunette, with pale skin and a slender, sinewy figure. He held a small, golden harp in his arm. The instrument was old, ancient even, and it had been lovingly decorated with carvings and jewels. At first, Maglor did not seem to be aware of the dwarf; but when he noticed him, his entire body tensed, and his grey eyes sharpened from liquid silver to hard iron.

“Your steward Himedhel commissioned locks from me,” Thorin beat any questions the elf might ask.

Maglor gave a slow nod. “Of course. I did not come to disturb you.”

And just like that, Maglor moved on, disappearing through another door.

Thorin forced his shoulders to relax.

He left the fortress without hurry, because that would have been undignified, but he was glad to leave nonetheless. Thorin took his work seriously, which was why he did not tinker around needlessly as he worked on the elves’ project.

Thorin returned to the fortress after a couple of days, because if there was one other thing he had learned as a travelling smith, it was that you did not keep royalty — or those who considered themselves royalty — waiting.

A group of men was busy in the courtyard, readying their horses. Maedhros Fëanorion stood in front of the fortress’ door, speaking to a muscular man who was evidently the leader of this group. The men wore light armour, and bore spears and bows. Thorin’s assumption that this was a hunting party was confirmed when he got closer and heard the redheaded elf lord wishing the men good luck for the hunt.

The man bowed and went to his fellow hunters, while Maedhros turned to the dwarf he had noticed as soon as Thorin had entered the courtyard.

“I know you,” the elf remarked, his high brow drawn into a thoughtful frown.

“I am Thorin, son of Thráin, currently the blacksmith in this settlement,” Thorin said.

The elf’s expression cleared.

“And you are a grandson of Thrór, the dwarven king under the Lonely Mountain. I recognize you now. I saw you standing near your king when I visited Erebor.”

“And I remember you, Maedhros, son of Fëanor.”

The redhead’s lips briefly twisted to a smirk one could almost call cheeky, as if he meant to say that of course Thorin knew who Maedhros was, because who didn’t?

“Come in,” Maedhros offered. He opened the door to his fortress as if it was grander than Erebor.

Thorin ignored the gesture, and entered the fortress.

“With your permission, Prince Maedhros,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, “I will install the new locks and bolts.”

“Of course.”

Prince Maglor found them then. He frowned at his brother.

“Nelyo, don’t keep the smith from doing his work.”

“I’m not keeping a smith from his work, I’m merely greeting a dwarf of great nobility as is proper.”

Maglor frowned. “Meaning?”

Thorin’s frown was even darker, while Maedhros seemed to take great pleasure in it.

“Brother, may I introduce Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, to you? We were not properly introduced when we visited Erebor, but they were present in the great hall.”

“I see,” Maglor replied, although it seemed to Thorin that the elf did not actually remember seeing Thorin; he knew, however, who he was. “I apologize for not recognizing you. Please excuse me and my brother, for I need to speak to him.”

The bard took Maedhros by the arm and led him away. Thorin gritted his teeth at the elves’ arrogance. He kept his tongue, went to work, and was glad when he had finished and could leave the fortress behind again. The rest of the day, he was moody and snapped at poor Leoth, finally dismissing the lad when his patience was at an end.

It was Thorin’s last visit to the fortress. The winter was long, but eventually spring came, and in the meantime, the elves left him alone. He saw them occasionally riding out, but it seemed that they spent most of their time in the fortress. Thorin ignored them in turn. He had enough customers.

In spring, he found that he wanted to remain no longer. He had taught Leoth all that was necessary for the human to work in the smithy on his own. Any other skills would come with experience. Leoth and his mother were content with that, and Thorin was relieved that they would not beg him to stay.

His family, or what remained of it, was waiting for him in the Blue Mountains, and he was glad to leave the place and the two elven lords behind.


End file.
